When I was little, I was spending the night at a friend's house, and in the middle of the night, I woke up and wandered around, and I had no idea how to return to her room, so I began to sneak about the halls, poking through the house. I guess I made some racket, because my friend's mom finally found me in a corridor, and she said, "What are you doing? Go back to bed." I remember thinking, Right, I'd really like to. Confused and frozen, I stared back at her. Finally, she shook her bed-head and took my hand, leading me back to the den, the sleepover room. Crawling under covers, I felt so defeated that I was "caught lost."
I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.
In high school, I was a brief member of the cross-country team. Brief…meaning, one day. Well, we were supposed to run five miles, but I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still running my heart out until I finally flagged down some random car and hitchhiked back to school. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and thumbing rides were too much trouble, so I quit the team, and I never regretted it.
I often get lost – when I'm walking, driving, or when I'm inside buildings and strange houses. Even when I visit a familiar house, if I’ve been hanging out on the back porch, once inside, I might forget whether the kitchen was right or left. If I enter a certain building from a new direction, I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm looking for the bathroom, I could end up at the closet door, or I’ll forget the way back to the people. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the correct route right out of my brain. So, I listen for any noise, such as the rumble of voices, to find the right way, or I stay lost, and I study whatever’s close.
Other times, I focus my attention on which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall. If they don't lean, I mutter nonsense until someone heads a certain direction, giving me the "signal." Or I shuffle a little, studying how they react. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they simply step forward, relaxed. Sometimes, it’s a rather humorous and maddening game. I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic – not the lost part, but the fear that I might have to ask, or that I might get caught in my lost state.
When driving, GPS comes in handy nowadays, sure, and I have a good sense, unless I'm daydreaming, and then I still might pass my exit and end up taking the long way. Back in the day, before cell phones, my road trips were often exceptional, but if alone, I never became stressed; I shrugged, checked out the scenery, and drove on.
Perhaps many people experience this phenomenon, but it seems that I mainly get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's as if my body is saying, No, you’re not in the right place. Go over here. Or, it's this: you are not with the right people. But most of the time, I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I see the pictures and stories in things. Some days, I imagine the whole damn movie. When I'm supposed to be pay attention to routes, I think about the sadness in the ice cream man's eyes, the unique shade of a woman’s hair, the man in coveralls at the park, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, or the next step for book five. At exit three, my exit, I might think this: I wonder how I'd look with a Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided that some people might be offended, and my head is too big for the look. And then I reroute.
But maybe getting lost has a purpose. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help, or a divine act of Providence, I eventually end up in the right place. And maybe it’s not where I was originally supposed to be, and maybe my way is crooked as all hell, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning,” “careful timing," or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.
Maybe it's the ridiculous “route of trying” that matters.
C.A. MacConnell
